On The Importance Of Sturdy Locks
by Sander
Summary: The Dane stumbles into the Swede's house. One shot.


**A/N**: My second fanfic, originally posted at the Kalmarunionen community on LJ the spring of 2010. Inspired by an overheard discussion involving my history teacher. Revised but unbetad.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the characters and I make no money of this. This piece of fanfiction is not intended as any kind of political statement.

* * *

There is a loud noise from the ground floor. Sweden looks up from his paperwork and blinks, his concentration broken. He cranes his neck to look out the door to the study, knowing full well that it won't help him see the corridor outside any better, much less the rest of the house.  
What was that? Maybe something fell... but what would it be? He doubts he owns anything that makes such a noise. _There couldn't be a burglar as stupid as that_, he muses as he lifts himself out of his chair. He ignores the hesitance he can't suppress.

Thankfully, there isn't a burglar stupid enough to break into a house through the front door in broad daylight when the owner obviously is at home. Then again, Denmark isn't a burglar.

Sweden finds the man on his back in the hallway, stuck under his fallen hallstand. Denmark moans painfully under the coats, shoes, boxes and umbrellas littered all around, and all Sweden can really muster as a reaction is a faint worry if the antique piece of furniture has been harmed. He doesn't worry about the mess - after all, he won't be the one to clean it up.

Denmark groans and cracks an eye open. Apparently, waking up to find Sweden staring down at you from a height is enough to jar even the Dane, because his face pales slightly. Though it could just be guilt. It probably isn't.

"Denmark."

"Ah, ahaha... Yo, Sweden."

"...What're you doin' here?"

"Ah, I just... felt like coming over, is all!" He continues to laugh.

"Could you try to not break down m'house at the same time." Sweden's voice drops in pitch for each word.

Denmark whips up an arm, with the addition of a scarf and an old newspaper, and waves it at Sweden defensively. "Hey, wait! Seriously, this is not my fault - the door was open! I was bringing some stuff over," indeed, there is a carton on the floor Sweden doesn't recognize, "and I almost dropped it coming up the porch so I leaned to the door to get a better grip, and BAM!" The newspaper crumples demonstratively under the man's arm as he drops it to the floor again. Sweden, only moving his eyes, moves his gaze up to the wide open front door, then to Denmark, quickly over towards the carton (probably filled with books or paper as Denmark can't be bothered with either) and lastly to the dark wood of his hallstand, where it lingers for several long moments. Good enough. He closes his eyes and nods imperceptibly, which instantly brings a smile to Denmark's face. Sweden squats down to help the Dane untangle himself from the debris.

After a brief scuffle and a half-hearted try to return the hallway to its former state, Denmark picks up the carton from the floor and dumps it in the Swede's arms. Its solid weight is familiar. "Old documents?"

"Yeah, found them in the basement. Looked like you'd have more use of them. I don't, anyway." He takes off his coat as he talks and hangs it from the corner of one of the hallstand's doors. Sweden ignores the sudden urge to yank the Dane away from his furniture in favor of opening the flaps on the box. By the look of the papers on top, nobody would have any use of them right now besides to light a fire. It's ancient bureaucracy, handwritten on yellowing, damaged paper.

"Hey, _Sverige_."

Sweden looks up instantly, surprised by the serious tone of the other man's voice. He's made himself at home already, he'd expect him to start asking where the beer is or when dinner is ready or if he can stay over, keeping Sweden awake all night with his racket or whatever, but not...

"Did you forget to lock your door?"

Sweden blinks. Then shakes his head in answer.

"You don't lock your door?"

"No need."

Denmark raises his eyebrows, a puzzled expression on his face. He turns around to look at the door, scratching his head, and then turns back. "Are you serious?"

Sweden frowns in confusion, but nods nonetheless. Denmark's expression goes from puzzled to perplexed. Then it suddenly turns serious, and he opens his mouth. "But, what do you do when..." The Dane's voice falters, and this is unusual.

"What?"

"When, y'know..." He rotates his hands. It doesn't help.

"What?"

"Y'KNOW, if somebody..." Denmark's mouth clicks shut, and he spreads his arms and shrugs.

If somebody decides to attack you. Declare war. Invade. Occupy.

Sweden gives Denmark a cold, lingering look before he turns around and walks into the kitchen with the carton. Denmark follows three steps behind, looking around in a manner supposed to be leisurely. Sweden lets the carton fall to the dinner table with a slam.

"It's not like everything is fine just because the Cold War is over. You know that." There's no pause between the sentences, and Denmark's voice carries a hint of accusation. Sweden has heard this one already. Many times more than he expected, really. He still can't bring himself to care. He starts going through the papers, sorting them into different bunches. Maybe there's some useful statistics to be found in them before he uses them to warm up his house.

"S'not the Middle Ages."

"No, it isn't. And people don't fight using swords or axes anymore. And if you're about to bring up being 'neutral', then so's Switzerland."

Sweden lets his arms fall to hang at his sides, straightens out his back and locks a pale eye on his fellow Nordic. Denmark, leaning an shoulder to the door frame with his hands down his pockets, stares back.

Denmark always was the one to never be scared of him.

"Do you even realize how soft you've gone?" A hint of poison, a relic from long times past. Sweden doesn't answer. There's no need to. Denmark's face twists into a mask of displeasure at his silence, and he pushes off the wall and returns down the hallway.

"I'm leaving."

Sweden hums in acknowledgment and turns back to his papers. It's almost completely silent but for the faint sound of Denmark's shuffling. Then there's an angry shout, "AT LEAST LOCK THE DAMN DOOR AFTER ME!", and the front door swings shut with a bang.


End file.
